Pastimes
by NatureNut
Summary: A quiet evening in rainy England with Christmas just around the corner. The house is still fairly quiet though, which leaves Quirrell and Voldemort, best friends and house mates, to entertain themselves and mull over their present feelings for the other. A short story in two parts. AVPM Canon/ Quirrellmort
1. Quirrell

**Part One**

It sat in the corner of the room and caught his eye every time he had to look up. Normally his gaze would've passed over it without a second thought, but for some reason he couldn't ignore it today. Maybe it was because of the rain beating mercilessly against the window pain, or perhaps he was distracted by the scent of freshly baked bread emanating from the kitchen. Either way, he knew he would not be able to rest until he'd picked up the damn thing. He sighed. Just as he was starting to sink his teeth into his book.

Quirrell gingerly picked up the guitar as if it were made of explosives instead of wood. He couldn't remember the last time he'd even held such an instrument; it had been years of course, long before he'd come here... Long before he'd been freed. An idle part of his brain wondered whether he'd remember the chord shapes. Another part scolded him for even thinking such a thought. _It's like riding a bicycle_, he chanted silently. _You never forget, but you can still fall and hurt yourself if you haven't practised in a while._

The first chord was simple: G major was easy enough no matter how foreign the instrument felt cradled in his lap. Still, the steel strings bit into his tender fingertips and it hurt like hell. Back when he used to play all the time he had developed rough callouses on the end of his fingers which made the pain more bearable. Not now though. Not anymore.

He played for a few more minutes while he got used to stretching his fingers in that way again. His other hand yearned for a pick- all this finger strumming was bound to form a blister and that would just be inconvenient. Nevertheless he played through the pain and found a sweet relish beneath the surface. Quirrell had forgotten how this music had been his lifeline when his life had looked most bleak. The dementors may have been able to suck all the happiness from him, but the simple pleasure of music must have been harder to sap. It had kept him sane at least, although it was a wonder they'd had guitars in Azkaban in the first place.

Finally Quirrell's fingers stopped aching and the noises coming from the wooden instrument sounded less like dying bees and more like music. Real music. The chords fitted themselves together again. He found himself humming, but he couldn't remember the words. Sad isn't it? He wanted to sing along, but part of his brain told him it was stupid. Humming would have to suffice for now.

G major. C major. E minor, D. Quirrell remembered it all now and the longer he played the easier he remembered what he lost. The room seemed to shine a little brighter. He didn't even realise that he was singing those forgotten words until a figure near the door _coughed_ softly.

"I had no idea you could play." He'd been sitting with his back to the door, so he hadn't seen Voldemort com into the room. Needless to say he stopped playing abruptly in shock, but he also made a good show of knocking the guitar onto the floor. It clattered violently and the strings hummed against the fretboard, once again sounding like a small hive of flying insects.

"I-I can't really. Not a-anymore." Quirrell hated himself for blushing. He and Voldemort had lived together for nearly six months now- it was almost Christmas for Wizard God's sake- and yet he still found himself blushing and jittery every time they were in the same room. Logic said that it was leftover Azkaban trauma. Reason said something different. "I used to p-play a lot in... In y'know... A-Azkaban. I th-think it was the only th-thing that kept me going."

Internally, Quirrell sighed. He'd never had a stutter before- that had been purely for show- but Azkaban had twisted his mind. After Voldemort had come to collect him from that godforsaken spit of land he'd slowly withdrawn into himself, and the stutter was the proof. It had been very severe for a few weeks after, but thankfully he was starting to recover. Only just though.

Voldemort had nothing to say to that. What could he say? Quirrell knew he felt bad enough about that whole debacle, and he felt terrible himself for having to mention it. It was an unspoken burden that they both carried, sometimes mentally, sometimes physically when Quirrell woke up in the dead of night glazed in cold sweat and screaming himself hoarse. Still, Voldemort was always up in a flash, racing from his own room down the hall to sit at Quirrell's bedside until he fell asleep again. He really couldn't have asked for a better friend.

Voldemort was looking particularly handsome today and Quirrell wasn't ashamed to think that any more. He'd been afraid at first and hadn't wanted to admit to himself that he might have feelings for the former dark lord, but now he knew he couldn't do anything about it except accept that this was his life now. He mulled over these thoughts for the thousandth time while drinking in Voldemort's essence from across the room, from the overly cheerful Christmas jumper he was wearing to the smudge of flour above his left eyebrow.

"Well, I think you- I mean it- sounded beautiful." Voldemort stammered. He managed a soft smile before taking an unsure step into the room. Quirrell blushed again and ducked his head. Maybe it would be a good idea to pick up the guitar now?

"They-thank you." When he looked back up from the carpet Voldemort was a lot closer than he'd been a few seconds ago. In fact, Quirrell almost bumped the back of his head on his knees, but both guys were so unused to having personal space it was a pretty common event. "What've you been baking this morning then?"

"Fruit loaf and Gingerbread. Or at least it should be- sometimes my fruit loaf turn into scone halfway through." Voldemort tried wiping the flour from his brow, suddenly acutely aware of it, but ended up just spreading it across his whole forehead. Quirrell had to suppress a giggle and wiped it off for him using his sleeve. "Thanks. It might be the rising charm I put on them before they go into the oven, but I'm not sure."

"Maybe it's the raisins you use." Quirrell was never very good with jokes, but subtle humour he could just about manage. Even when he knew that Voldemort's face was probably only inches away. "I-I th-thought you said something about buying them from p-pixies."

This time it was Voldemort's turn to laugh quietly. "No, I said that I buy my raisins from Piskys, the new wholesale shop outside Hogsmeade- they deliver their produce buy Owl."

"I know." Quirrell smiled fondly again, although it was directed at the guitar in his hand rather than Voldemort. He wanted to say something more, perhaps about what they could do at the weekend. They hadn't actually been rollerblading and seen a movie together yet. But just as he opened his mouth the timer on the oven rang out from across the hall.

"I'd better get that actually." Saved by the bell. Quirrell sighed. "I mean it though, you sound good. You sing well too." He ducked around the doorway and was gone again just as quietly as he'd arrived.

Exhaling loudly, Quirrell sank back into his chair, still clutching the guitar firmly by the neck. His legs were shaking, his back ached from sitting up straight for goodness knows how long playing the guitar and he was pretty sure his upper lip was quivering. Plus his heart was racing a mile a minute and his cheeks were burning. Yet there was only one thought racing around his nimble mind.

_I didn't even tell him it was about him._


	2. Voldemort

**Part Two**

Down the hallway, in their tiny house's even tinier kitchen, Voldemort hummed Quirrell's simple melody to himself as he rescued his fruit-loaf-(regrettably)-turned-scones and gingerbread men from the scorching oven. He didn't even try to hide to smile plastered across his face. The boy was in love with him. _Him_.

Of all the people Voldemort had met and interacted with in his life, Quirrell had been by far his favourite. It had started when he called him a friend after their night out, but then it had snowballed until he had sent him away to Azkaban. When they'd been reunited Voldemort had to admit to himself that he had officially fallen for him- there was no way of denying it when even the lightest touch or briefest eye contact made his heart flutter uncontrollably.

His only regret was not acting on his feelings sooner. Six months he'd put off going rollerblading. Six months that they could've been a happy couple wasted by Voldemort hiding away in this kitchen. Not for much longer, he decided.

The tray of gingerbread men on the counter caught his eye, and he laughed. No- giggled like a schoolgirl. Only two out of the dozen he'd baked had turned out looking like actual humanoids, but two were all he needed. He grabbed his icing mix and food colouring, from the cupboard and set to work. His smile only grew.

Confidence was a wonderful thing. Voldemort had never lacked it even as a young boy. But he was just starting to learn that there were different types of confidence. He had the kind of confidence that enabled him to speak his mind, and dance in front of his legions of servants and followers, but he didn't have the confidence to speak his feelings. With Bellatrix he hadn't had to- well there hadn't been very many strong feelings anyway because he'd always wanted her for her body (a mutual feeling, he was sure). Quirrell on the other hand... Well there had to be a reason that Voldemort was giggling to himself in the kitchen yet hiding behind a baking tray.

It took him almost half an hour to finish getting the gingerbread men absolutely perfect. The icing had taken no time at all, but he was still getting used to casting non-harmful spells. The unforgivables were alright, but they couldn't enchant and they couldn't delight, so he really had no use for them in his life now. The spell he wanted to use was incredibly tricky anyway, but somehow he managed it.

_The living room would probably be best,_ Voldemort thought quietly as he scooped up the biscuits and his left-over icing sugar. _I could use the coffee table, and there's always the CD player..._

He sprinkled the sugar over the low glass table, making sure to pile it up a bit at the sides so that is resembled, well a small frozen pond with snowy banks. Then it was just a simple matter of shrinking their Christmas tree to put on the side and enchanting the gingerbread men before stumbling across Quirrell's classical CD collection and playing the dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy. Okay, so maybe that was his CD, but it didn't matter. He hoped the music would coax Quirrell out of his room.

"Voldemort?" That was even quicker than expected. He jumped. Quirrell had been standing by the door for he didn't know how long so why hadn't Voldemort noticed him- was he that distracted by the music? "What are you doing?"

"Oh, well, uh..." If Voldemort hadn't been distracted by the music, he was definitely distracted by Quirrell. His heart felt like it was slamming against his ribcage just from glancing and his tousled hair and indescribably beautiful eyes. _Confidence, come on._ "Well, my gingerbread men didn't turn out how I wanted the to, so I tried to salvage what I could."

"That explains the biscuits, but not why they're ice skating on our coffee table or why you're standing by the CD player, which is playing ballet music, with your cheeks as red as your jumper." He didn't sound pissed, merely curious as he plucked one of the gingerbread men from the table. It squirmed between his fingers, desperately trying to finish the pirouette it had been doing. "And why is my Christmas Tree tiny and covered in icing sugar?"

_Confidence, Voldy, come on! _Voldemort gulped. It had seen like such as good idea, but now it just seemed silly. Quirrell wasn't stuttering though, which must've been a sign that he was secretly happy about it.

"I just thought it would be a good idea. I'm not sure why... But..."

"But?"

He gulped again. All or nothing. _Confidence_.

"But-I-think-it-would-be-nice-if-we-went-ice-skating-this-weekend."

Quirrell laughed, and it was probably the most genuine laugh Voldemort had heard from him since they'd moved here. If anything it made him feel even more nervous, for reasons he didn't even understand himself.

"You have no idea how long I've been waiting for you to ask that. You can sit down if you want, you know." He'd been frozen by the CD player the whole time, but now he stiffly managed to make his way over to the sofa where Quirrell was now siting. He played with the gingerbread-Voldemort on his palm while gingerbread-Quirrell still twirled around on the table. "And yes, I think that would be nice."

With those simple words Voldemort felt his stiffness melt and he practically flopped back onto the armrest. He didn't though, because that would've been embarrassing, but he did smile warmly at Quirrell who returned it with just as must enthusiasm.

"I kind of don't want to eat these." Quirrell let gingerbread-Voldemort twirl once more on his palm before putting him back on the table. The enchanted biscuit skated off to find his friend, gingerbread-Quirrell. They skated around the perimeter of the table once and then split off again. "You obviously spent a lot of time making them."

"For you. I spent the time making them for you." The words almost choked Voldemort on the way out, but he reckoned they needed to be said. "I think they'll just skate until they crumble if we don't eat them. Here- you can have mine."

"Okay, but but only if you eat mine." Quirrell took the gingerbread-Voldemort into his hand again, but this time it didn't squirm or move at all. Voldemort found that gingerbread-Quirrell did the same.

_Old me would've found this kinky. _He thought, brushing the last of the crumbs off his hands after demolishing the biscuit far too quickly. To his surprise it had tasted really nice, and he didn't usually like gingerbread. Maybe it was the icing. _I'm not going to lie, I still find it a little kinky._ He didn't say anything though.

"That was really good Voldemort. I knew you could bake, but that's the best gingerbread I've ever tasted." Quirrell wiped his hands on his trousers and smiled at him again. He could probably live off those smiles if he had to. "Thank you."

"No no, I should thank you really..." _Confidence_. He urged himself again. "I felt inspired by your song earlier." Quirrell ducked his head to hide a blush. At this point they both knew that he'd been singing about Voldemort, but neither of them actually wanted to say it out loud. Voldemort cleared his throat before continuing.

"And I just wanted to say that I really liked it, and... And that I like you too, Quirrell."

"I like you too Voldemort." He wasn't sure Quirrell fully understood his meaning. Of course they liked each other- they were best friends! He took Quirrell's hand gently.

"No, I mean I _like_ you." There was no mistaking the blush coluring both their faces now. Voldemort could only hope that he didn't look too ridiculous, though he doubted Quirrell cared. He looked too surprised. "Which is why I'm really happy you agreed to go Ice Skating."

"I'm happy you asked. I... I really _like_ you too."


End file.
